Now he sat in the school office, waiting, his mother on one side, his father on the other. The secretaries kept looking over at him, then exchanging glances. He felt like a freak in the circus. Murder Boy.

He sighed and shifted on his chair. His father put his hand on his shoulder and gave a little squeeze. His mother got up and went to the counter to ask the secretary how long it would be.

“Are you nervous?” his father asked.

Tommy shrugged.

“All you have to do is tell the detective what happened and what you saw.”

Tommy said nothing. He stared at the doorway that led into the hall where the principal’s office and the conference room were, willing Wendy to come out and give him some kind of signal.

He heard a door open, but it wasn’t Wendy who emerged from the hall. It was a dark-haired man in a coat and tie, and he looked right at Tommy, then at his dad.

“Dr. Crane?”

“Yes,” his father said, rising.

His mother turned away from the secretary and stepped forward with her hand outstretched and her smile wide. “Janet Crane.”

“I’m Detective Mendez.” The detective greeted his parents only briefly, then focused on Tommy, bending over and offering his hand. “Hey, Tommy. How you doin’?”

Tommy shrugged and slid off his chair, sticking his hands in his pants pockets. Adults always thought they could impress kids by pretending to treat them like they weren’t kids.

“Tommy,” his mother said. “Manners.”

“I’m okay,” Tommy said. He was fine for having fallen on a dead woman.

They all went down the hall to the conference room, where Miss Navarre was waiting, trying not to look anxious. Pale with dark smudges under her eyes, she smiled at him like she was willing him to be brave.

“Did you get any sleep last night, Tommy?” Miss Navarre asked as they all took seats at the big table.

“He slept through the night,” his mother announced. “I gave him an antihistamine before bed. To help him relax.”

Detective Mendez raised an eyebrow but didn’t look at Tommy’s mother. He was messing with a tape recorder and shuffling through some papers.

“Tommy has allergies,” his mother went on. “He has a prescription. It’s nothing he hasn’t taken before.”

The detective spoke to the cassette recorder, telling it who was in the room.

“Dr. Crane. What kind of a doctor are you?”

“I’m a dentist. Tommy has a pediatrician, of course.”

Mendez pursed his lips and went, “Hmmm.”

Tommy’s mother frowned, displeased. She thought the detective was disapproving of her. Tommy could tell by the way she narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

“I spoke to his doctor last night,” she said. “I was concerned about Tommy having nightmares.”

“Tommy, did you have any nightmares?” the detective asked. “You had quite a scare yesterday.”